


The Porcelain Man

by sockssoft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, adventuring around the flat, delicate antiques and gentle romance, pretty music boxes and trinkets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockssoft/pseuds/sockssoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a wooden toy soldier who falls in love with Sherlock Holmes, a porcelain ballerina, who has a (knick) knack for getting into trouble. They find softness in the little things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fragility

**Author's Note:**

> This will be posted in three parts, every other day. I'm currently almost done part three.  
> This was not beta'ed or brit-picked.  
> Enjoy!  
> 

Dr. John Hamish Watson was approximately 20.32 centimeters _(or eight inches)_ tall with a thick build, and lifelike hair. His sword was plastic _(from a newer model),_ which upset Watson a bit, but he did not let that get to him. The cut of his body was smooth, polished wood while his clothes must have been the roughness of velvet.

He had one arm and four bite marks on his shoulder.  

As the collectors would say, he was _“not for children.”_

Currently, he resided in a glass case overlooking an outdated dining room. Mike Stamford’s collection of old figurines was slowly dwindling and Watson tried not to think about the missing toys, or how distressed Stamford appeared. _(It was a happy sort of distressed.)_ When the parenting magazines began to arrive, he knew.

Watson was a soldier. Of course he was not for children.

 _Of course_ , he knew he would be given away like the others.

++

It happened on a rainy day, though Watson did not know this. He never had access to the window.

A lively, older woman entered, and he could hear the droning laughter of Stamford and the stranger. Once small talk was over, Stamford walked into the dining room, clearing the half-made crib out of the way to create a path for the visitor. The woman clapped her hands together and practically swooned at the state of the toy soldier.

“Oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he?” she grinned as Stamford opened the case.

“A bit worn like I told you, but…”

“The online pictures didn’t do him justice,” she replied, her mouth pinched into a small smile.  

“Careful,” Stamford warned as he handed Watson over.

If the soldier could roll his eyes, he would.

People were always overly gentle with him. It was irritating.

“He’s going to be such a wonderful addition. A perfect fit.”

And that was that.

++

In all honesty, the change of scenery was—good. Less dull. And it was always exhilarating to see out the open windows. He was placed on the fireplace mantel to protect the large room. _(According to Watson.)_

It was an unusual place, very remarkable: old chairs, a violin case, a microscope not out of its box. Figurines cluttered the shelves against the walls, the snow globes, nutcrackers, tea tins, glass kittens. All of them placed in crooked positions, all dusted and neatly loved.

Watson was not fragile.

_(Perhaps broken.)_

++

Standing for long periods of time was very boring, and Watson was very aware of this. The new home had more fascinating things to protect, but it did not alleviate the monotony of his duties. But, this was his job, and if being captain of this place meant standing guard, he would do so.

But, God, how he wished something interesting would happen to him.

After another hour _(said the grandfather clock)_ of mind-numbing standing, Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

Watson straightened his shoulders to show how useful he was being, and clutched at the dull sword in his hand. It could not help defend him, but he still liked the feel of it.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to be in a different sort of mood. She hummed to herself, talking in the crook of her arm. Ah. Watson focused. A new antique. It must be another one of those baby figurines by the way she cooed at it.        

She placed a pale box onto the table, her fingers smoothing over the flowers painted along the sides. There were pink bees on the front, making a loop at the golden lock keeping it together. It was all rather _(attractively)_ posh, and well-loved. Watson wondered how long she had this treasure.  

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Mrs. Hudson sighed to herself.

Watson felt as if she was talking directly to him, but most likely it was to the whole of the room.

 “Usually I have him on my kitchen table, but I thought I’d…” she waved her hand, laughing.

The older woman must have realized she was talking to herself. If not, then Watson surely thought she was a bit off her rocker.  

She opened the box gingerly, lifting the lid up on its hinges.

Suddenly, a beautiful sound emerged from inside. With the music, a ballet dancer sprung up, his hands outstretched in mid-twirl, his shiny body lifted on one pointe.

The figure twirled and twirled with the soft hum of the music.

In that moment, Watson fell in love.

++

John Watson, smallish soldier, made a decision. It was rash. He couldn’t care less.

That day, after Mrs. Hudson left for the afternoon, he tied a bit of thread to a candlestick, and threw the thin rope until it reached the ground. Unfortunately, a rather spidery knot got in the way, so the thread ended right at the mouth of the fireplace. He persisted. With only one arm, he gripped the thread and wrapped it around his hand.

A glimpse back at the closed music box, and he jumped off the ledge.

He got tangled only twice, nearly falling into the cold hearth, but steadied himself, and continued his descent. Smiling madly, he thought about what awaited him across the large room. He cared not for the long-term: Watson rarely lived on the infinite possibilities of the future, no matter how long his life was getting to be. Sometimes, he tried to remember his past, but the ghosts mocked him like the plastic of his weapon and the hollowness of his skin.  

Instead, his mind gravitated towards the present, to the exhilarating rush from the memory of that mysterious figurine.

Watson thought about the wild questions he had for the man. Was his voice just as enchanting as the music he produced? Did he like the dancing? What was his name?

Hearting racing _(pitter patter)_ , Watson reached the end of the rope.

The porcelain man was a mystery and Watson needed to solve it.

Swinging his wooden legs, he let go and dropped to the ground. Watson winced when he landed, but, thankfully, he kept his left side unharmed. Grazing his warped fingertips over the empty socket of his arm, he had a vague spark of doubt _(shame.)_

A beautiful, porcelain creature wouldn’t want to be affiliated with a broken toy like him.

++

“”You’ve seen battle,” a voice stated.

Watson whipped his head around, and then opened his mouth in surprise. He closed it right away, gave a swift nod of affirmation, that _(yes!)_ this was the shiny doll who danced to lullaby music. He stood normally, feet apart, shoulders steady, and let the silence fill the room _(for a moment.)_  

The porcelain man stood atop the table that rested beside the window, but slowly walked toward Watson. He frowned when he reached the edge of the table, and scraped his foot at the wood. Just as quickly as he scrunched his face, did it relax again, softening his glossy features.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said, plopping down hard on the table’s surface.

The man sat crossed-legged, his legs making tiny _‘clink’_ sounds as he rubbed them together.

“You can talk too,” he replied instead.

The man scoffed, folding his arms. “ _Yes_ , and you’re horrible with answering questions.”

“What?” Watson was too entranced by the pale of porcelain, how it resembled flesh. _(Was it soft to the touch?) “_ And, it wasn’t a question. You made a statement.”

The man smiled knowingly. “And what about my statement… _doctor_ too, is it? Oh, you’re heavily decorated, how interesting.” The ballet doll tapped his fingers on his chin with intent.

Watson felt like he was being dissected, and all he could think about in return was the softness of porcelain, like milk, and the hardness of glass fingers, like pearls.  

 “ _Ahem_ , yes well, I thought the statement was obvious,” Watson replied, shifting his weight to his other leg. It ached.

“To me, obvious _to me._ I’m rather clever with noticing things.” At this, the stranger smiled wide, lifting his chin up.

Watson glanced down to his dusty uniform. “It doesn’t take a genius to know I’m—”

“You’re a soldier not from your uniform or injury, but from the way you stand, your unwavering eye-contact, and the staining on your right wrist. The warped pattern is widespread, in a way that says it was from rain, but it was heavy downpour. _Easy_. Why would an antique like you be out in the rain? The larger hints, your missing limb and your bad leg, reveal that you were outside because you chose to be, and got into danger. I’d say one of the living animals got you while you were tending to kidnapped antiques from said animal.”

The man looked transfixed as he continued with one breath:

“No permanent damage to you though, and you didn’t _die_ , so it must have been a feline that attacked you, and if it was a cat then you must have been rescuing antiques similar to play toys. Suggests high moral standards, especially since things like us, even if enchanted, aren’t really considered ‘living,’ anyway. Conclusion, you’re not just dressed as a prim, little soldier, but you _are_ one. Obvious.”

It felt as if Watson was punched in the gut, and his chest full of splintered surprise.

“That was brilliant,” Watson said.

The man on top of the table, ( _so far away,)_ leaned back and his mouth opened. His eyebrows furrowed, but quickly, he mastered a neutral expression, and shrugged.

“Was it?”

“Yes. Of course. It was incredible. Granted, the other stuff, like my arm, isn’t exactly a _clue_ , but…how’d you know it was a cat?”

The stranger shook, the shine of his lips seeming to glimmer more-so when he lipped at the bottom. The porcelain man quieted down, his voice seeming to dip deeper. Watson wondered if his vocal range could reach the thrill of the music from the box.

“Of course it was a cat. I simply calculated your body mass index, and the approximate strength of a tabby’s jaw-bite to how much you can lift. It was a simple algorithm. _Hm_ , also, there’s some cat hair imbedded in your trousers.”

Looking expectantly, the stranger lifted his head again, his eyes narrowing.

Watson coughed abruptly, and without thinking, said, “Amazing. Right. Quite amazing.”

It felt so natural to compliment this man, _(and Watson did not see a problem with this_.) The figurine did take these compliments… _well_ , which made a deep sort of longing curl in his chest.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Since you bothered to come all this way to visit me, it would be a shame that you didn’t know my name, at least.”

Mr. Holmes, as this man was called, smiled brightly. It was not just the smooth twinkle of his skin, but the wonderful gaze in his eyes that portrayed this. When Watson kept staring, Mr. Holmes seemed to get shyer, though he did not look away. Their gaze intensified.

“John Watson.”

“John,” Mr. Holmes repeated. “Is that your model name?”

Watson tried not to notice how familiar Mr. Holmes was acting with him.

“My model name is 001895, so no.”

“Beautiful number.”

Watson felt a vague sensation across his face, as if the maple of his cheeks was warming.

“And Mr. Holmes? Is that your…”

“No one named me, John,” he whispered _(quite loudly, though, for Watson to hear.)_ “I named me.”

“All right,” huffed Watson.

“And please, it’s Sherlock.”

“John. John is fine too, if you like.”

“Oh, very much.”

++

Mrs. Hudson came back during dinnertime for dusting, and to whisper what appeared to be serious things to Sherlock. Luckily, John had reached the mantel just in time. When she was finally gone, he wasted no time to see the porcelain man once more.

When the lights were out that same day, he descended the fireplace mantel with a bit of thread, trekked across the floor, climbed up the wooden chair, and had Sherlock haul him up to the table.

Sherlock showed John his music box, waltzing _(he was walking, but it was very much like the dance)_ around it. Touching the delicate corners, Sherlock described to John the various facts about, what he called, _‘his home.’_

“It plays from various studs that go round a cog, so it can hit the notes correctly each time. I can recreate the song with my body, though it doesn’t sound as good, and I’m out of practice. I’m usually there for…decoration.”

John looked up from where he examined the beautiful box, and stared at the open expression on his new friend’s face. His friend. Yes, that sounded nice.

Glancing at how Sherlock’s hands fidgeted, John wondered how such a delicate-seeming man could have such a stone-like façade. One that John could see through _(sometimes.)_ His pale ballet uniform was painted across his body, though it just a leotard. The tutu was actual fabric, stitched and well-loved.

Sherlock had the tendency to stand on his toes.

John wondered if there was a more beautiful man than Sherlock, and doubted it very much.

“I bet you’re wonderful,” John said, daring for Sherlock to disagree.

“I’m rusty.”

“ _Mm_ , I’d like to hear you sing, if you would want to,” John suggested, and tilted his head endearingly.

“Sing? I don’t sing. I _play_ ,” he corrected lightly. “And—perhaps sometime.”

++

Moments later, Sherlock asked,

“So if you were surprised I could speak, did that mean you were going to trek all this way to see a voiceless doll?”

John turned to Sherlock and tried not to swallow the burst of affection he had.

“I knew you were enchanted.”

“How could you possibly know?” the man sneered as he played with the ball inside a toy bell.

“I—just knew,” he shrugged. “I know it’s possible to be enchanted and not be able to talk.”

“How would we communicate then?” Sherlock asked fancifully.

Snorting, John leaned a bit toward Sherlock, and flicked at the silver bell between the other man’s knees.

“A series of hand signals, maybe you could talk through _clinks_ and _rings_.”

Sherlock rang the bell abruptly, pressing his ear to the metal.

“How remarkable,” he murmured, though John did not know if he was talking about what he had just said, or if he had lost himself in his thoughts.

++

“Would you like to see my hiding spot?”

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock waved his hands in front of him. “Hiding spot. A safe place of comfort, usually kept secret from—”

“Yes, I know, but— _er_ —you have a hiding place.”

“Spot.”

 _“Spot,”_ John corrected himself, straining his voice. “And yes.”  

 

Once they got to Sherlock’s music box, the man pulled the lid up and flipped a switch before music began to play from it. Inside was a circular stand where Sherlock’s foot attached to, where he glided around in a loop. Distracted, Sherlock further ignored John’s confusion, and lifted the mechanical platform up.

Hidden away was a secret compartment.

John guessed it was used for jewelry, but Sherlock made it into a makeshift hideaway. The lining was maroon velvet, the bottom covered in a fuzzy sock. Where rings would be, Sherlock had paperclips, ripped paper, gum wrappers, and beside the sock was a small magnifying glass and the silver bell from before.  

“Tada,” Sherlock said weakly.    

John looked from his friend to what appeared to be Sherlock’s home, and back to Sherlock’s face. His neck, lips, to be specific.

“It looks…comfortable.”

“I like comfort,” Sherlock replied.

From the delicateness of his outfit, to his polished lips, to nimble fingers, Sherlock did not look like he would know what comfort was. But he did, and he enjoyed it.

“Why do you have a magnifying glass? Do you like detective stuff?”

“Of many things I like, ‘detective stuff’ is one, yes. Not like the novels, though. Those are idiotic.”

“Of course they are.”

John smiled wide. Sherlock did back.

“So that doesn’t bother you?”

John chuckled. “No. Why would it?”

At this, Sherlock cleared his throat, as if preparing a speech. John could hear the _‘tinks’_ from Sherlock’s fingers curling together.

“Sometimes, I get quite loud and excited, and cause a ruckus.”

“All right…”

Sherlock bit his lip, but continued: “I’m crude and sometimes I play my music box from the inside, for hours, on a good day. I oversleep and I’m moody and I might experiment on trinkets I find around the room. I’ll ignore you if I’m occupied with something, and I’ll ignore you for seemingly no reason as well.”

“ _Um_. What is this about?”

 Opening his mouth to reply, Sherlock instead blurted, like it was the great deal-breaker: “I talk about my hair a lot!”

“Okay,” John laughed, shaking his head in amusement. His eyes did not leave Sherlock’s lips. “ _Okay_. It’s good hair. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Well,” he said, his voice lower again, his eyebrows up, mouth twitched to one side of his face. “Flat-mates should know the worst.”

John gulped _(not a bad thing. Just. Wow.)_ His fingers moved at his side and John wished he had his other arm to steady himself on the solid surface of the table. He rubbed the golden clasp of his uniform, observing Sherlock’s expectant gaze.

“I’m sorry? Flat-mates?”

“Move in with me,” he replied, his pose something John recognized as suave, or confident. Or deteriorating, or lost.  

How hard was it for Sherlock to maintain that look of endearing smugness for it to crumble so easily?

And John just met him and now Sherlock was asking for them to be room-mates. It was insane. It was idiotic.

There was only one possible response to this.

“Yes.”

Surprise flickered across Sherlock’s pale features, his eyes roving over John’s person rapidly.

 _“Yes?”_ he whispered.

John grinned, his head down, but his eyes looking up at Sherlock.

“God yes.”

++

When Sherlock climbed into his music box, John realized something.

Sherlock’s music box was very small for two figurines.

“You only have one sock,” John pointed out.

Sherlock was already tucked in, and the sky was getting darker and darker. He folded his arms over the lip of the sock and wiggled his feet inside.

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, looking around. “I thought we only needed one sock.”

“It doesn’t matter. Wood is always warm. And I don’t exactly sleep.”

“You don’t sleep? I do.”

“Well, I’m supposed to,” John replied.

“Did you not want to relax?” Sherlock questioned, his voice just reaching fretful, or overly worried. “We could go exploring if you wanted.”

“No,” John said, sighing with ease. “This is good. We can go detecting tomorrow night, if you’re up for it.”

John did not add how he also, in that moment, wanted to talk to Sherlock quietly, soft words, and curious questions.

Without any more push or shove, John unbuttoned the top clasp of his uniform, and climbed into the box. Sherlock offered to move over, which John thanked him. They ended up face to feet, Sherlock lounging inside his sock, while John sat upright against the maroon wall, his elbow knocking on the silver bell beside him.

“How did you get all these knick-knacks?”

Sherlock looked up, and in his hand was a tiny origami swan. Instead of napkin or paper, it was made of shiny gum wrapper.

“Gifts.”

“Who is giving you gifts?”

“Various living things, John. For instance, this wrapper was given to me by a rather inquisitive crow.”

“You’re like a collector yourself,” John grinned, laughing _(softly.)_

Sherlock smiled, placing his swan neatly in his lap.

“What about me?” John asked, his tone what one might call, light-hearted. “You can’t deduce everything about my life… _well_. Maybe you could. Actually, yeah, you could, but it’s not like there’s much to observe anyway.”

“I can deduce everything,” Sherlock scoffed. “But, in light of our conversation, John, I’ll ask.”

“Keep it interesting,” John grinned.

Sherlock leaned forward, though the movement itself did not have much purpose other than to show interest.

“Do you like dogs?”

John burst out giggling, rubbing his hand on his face. He tilted his head up with his cheek still in his palm.

“Yes, I do.”

Sherlock nodded dutifully.

“I thought so, but my observations were inconclusive with cats, because of the possible traumatic experience you’ve had.”

John laughed through his hand, his eyes squinting. Sobering up, John whispered, “I’m fine with cats.”

“Oh, good,” Sherlock leaned down, pulling himself deeper inside his sock.

“So you like animals, socks,” John nodded to indicate the sock-in-question. “And music.”

“I like knowing things, John. Don’t over simplify it to suit some romantic way of thinking.”

John averted his eyes at the word ‘romantic,’ questioning what connotations Sherlock was using for the word. He coughed, and pressed his thumb at the corner of his mouth, contemplating.

“Well, _mm_ , goodnight, John.”

Sherlock turned and instantly fell asleep inside his sock, John just releasing his thumb from his lip.

“Sherlock?”

“G’nie, Juh,” Sherlock snuffled, moving his delicate feet inside his bedding.

Smiling, John shuffled closer inside the box, not fully prepared to fall asleep. His heart, _(he could surely feel a heart?)_ skipped inside his chest, his hands clammy, his eyes large and imploring. He wished to talk with Sherlock until the sun came up, but watching the silvery breaths release and catch inside the porcelain man was nice enough too.

John dozed off thinking about matching pairs and cold feet.   

++

“How did you come up with the name Sherlock Holmes?”

“God I need a microscope, one that doesn’t—” Sherlock kicked at the large instrument, “damn well tower over me!”

They had relocated to the kitchen for the day, which was something John appreciated. He loved walking, especially when Sherlock was running in front of him, exclaiming about a crime he read in the paper, or a new project he wanted to work on.

Today, Sherlock was in a sour mood, fuming over the state of his science equipment.

“It’s not the microscope’s fault, for Christ’s sake!”

Sherlock flipped his head around, daring for John to say something. Silent, John lifted his head, and felt rather smug.

“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself, John. Like you haven’t bloody well punched at those books you tried to read, or break that stand—”

After John and Sherlock had decided to move in together, Mrs. Hudson bought a hideous antique stand for the soldier, lamenting about his poor posture on the mantel.

 “Don’t bring up the stand!” he shouted, his finger wagging. “It just so _happens_ to fall off the shelf every now and then.”

“Five times in two days when it’s attached to your waist, John, _really?”_  

“Well, what’s she trying to do with me, but keep me all stiffened with that thing!”

“Oh yes, exactly what she’s trying to do,” Sherlock muttered.

“ _Er_ —what?”

“Nothing. We both know you don’t need a doll brace, but she doesn’t know better. She probably thinks this is the equivalent of making us _tea_.”

“Well, someone should tell her,” John grumbled.

Sherlock replied in a mumble, but John caught the eye roll, so he thought he got the gist of it. When Sherlock tried looking through the eyepiece again, John helped him turn the calibration knob, and later, they bickered about the usefulness of honey.

In the end, John just allowed himself the decency to let Sherlock rant about bee populations, and honey recipes, falling into the nice lull of the man’s voice. He wondered once again what music would sound like from such plush lips.  

He never got a clear answer from Sherlock about his name, but then again, nothing was ever straightforward for the doll.

++

One day, John did get what he wanted, after all.

It happened somewhat out of the blue. Sherlock had been staring at the carvings of his music box, tracing the flowers and pink bees with his fingertips when he said,

“I only know the classics.”

John was stirred in more ways than one, and left the mystery novel he was failing to read on the floor. Sherlock sat in one of the arm chairs _(he needed a different stage for something this grand),_ and John decided to join him there, remarking how upholstery was a different climbing experience than hard wood on his knees. Sherlock merely smiled, and helped him to the cushion with thread and an outreaching hand.

_(They faced each other.)_

The music from Sherlock’s mouth sounded like a violin, soft and slow. His eyes were closed, his cheeks tinted _(was it paint?)_ as he went through the lullaby. Sherlock’s head _(full of glass hair)_ lifted upwards, and a spare bit of light from outside caught his cheekbone. It illuminated him like a glass star.

John wished to put his fingers through his hair. How he ached.

It soon evolved into an enchanting sound, much like Sherlock voice. It reminded John of full moons, chandeliers, and the quiet agony of dancing alone.

When Sherlock closed his mouth, and the music dulled, John stepped closer, and tapped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in an imitation of clapping. It had nothing to do with touching, and wanting more of it, of feeling the glass that could create such passionate feeling.  

“That was…lovely. Stunning.”

“Thank you, John.”

The smile that spread across Sherlock’s face was tiny, and the best thing John had ever seen. He hungered for it.

“How long have you been here? It could’ve taken you some time to learn that song, but knowing you, you could have mastered singing in an afternoon.”

Sherlock brightened. “Oh, I’ve been here under a year. Mrs. Hudson keeps me in her kitchen, usually. And no, it didn’t take an afternoon.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John. Don’t be slow. She’s our duster. That’s her name.”

“I know her name is Mrs. Hudson. Just thought you’d call her ‘mum’ or something, not your bloody duster,” John said, watching as Sherlock pouted at the statement.

“Why on earth would I call her that?”

“She coddles you an awful lot so—”

At this, _(and perhaps this was why John even said that in the first place,)_ Sherlock’s porcelain face glowed, his cheeks overly blushed. It couldn’t have been realistic on a real, living person. But here Sherlock was: real and alive. Crossing his arms, he then bristled, his skirt flittering in his movements.

Sherlock did not, however, bring up how Mrs. Hudson dusted John more often than the rest of the figurines, or how she tutted about his missing arm.

“She’s not my bloody mum.”

“I didn’t mean anything from it, just that you’re fond of her. That you can be fond of people, in general.”

John let his sentence trail off, trying to push an invisible idea into Sherlock’s line of thoughts. Unfortunately, Sherlock was still stuck on what John previously said.  

“People don’t coddle me, John,” Sherlock fumed quietly. “No one does. Not my brother, not my landlady, and certainly not you.”

Almost laughing from shock, John leaned back, tilting his head. He felt in pain.

“Who said anything about that? And brother? You’ve got a brother?”

Sherlock twisted his body so his skirt could answer his denial, but John persisted anyway, needing an answer.

“Yes I have a brother. Just like I have a mother and father. Is that so difficult to believe? Am I really so lifeless that you can’t think I’m something more than a…”

“Sherlock…”

“I’m done talking now.”

John’s eyes widened, though he remained mostly still.

“Oh, you’re done? Fine, fine,” he said, determined. “But I will not stand for one moment letting you believe that I think you are… _fake_.”

“I’m not fake. I’m real porcelain,” Sherlock replied, his voice tentative.

“You’re the realest person I know,” John nodded, his chest expanding.

John loved him; John wished he could break through his hiding spots without breaking the man himself.


	2. Gentleness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 is almost done. I just need maybe two more scenes/ or epilogue. Hope you enjoy!!

John started to carry thread with him for the climbing, and Sherlock had made John a harness out of a paperclip. John also knew he could use it for a weapon, if he curled it around his plastic sword with the point bit extended. He was making trips often by then. After a couple days, it wore on his body, but John seemed invigorated after seeing Sherlock’s animated expressions once he arrived.    

“Why did Mrs. Hudson bring you up here, if you were keeping her company in her kitchen?”

Sherlock turned around fully, inspecting the chair back.

“Okay then,” John muttered.

“Come, John, come. I’ve a new toy I’d like you to inspect,” Sherlock said urgently, pushing John’s question aside.

They climbed inside the music box together, John kneeling behind Sherlock as the man looked for his newest desire. Sherlock exclaimed an _‘aha’_ once he found it, and brandished a rather large cigarette in John’s face.

Immediately _(because of course Sherlock looked ridiculous and funny and odd and amazing)_ John laughed and laughed, pushing the thing away from him. “What the hell are you doing with that?”

“I want to smoke!” he shouted, as if announcing to an audience.

“You can’t smoke cigarettes, you git. You don’t have any lungs, and even if you did, you’re not ruining them.”

Maybe, John thought, he did coddle Sherlock, a bit.

“Fine, but I found it so I’m keeping it forever.”

“Forever?” John replied. “If you find something, do you just keep it forever then?”

“If I find it valuable then of course I do.”

Sherlock gulped, fiddled with the cigarette, and flung it to the other side of the small hiding spot.

“If you like it then.”

Sherlock tilted his head at this question. “…yes. I suppose so.”

“If you’re fond of it.”

Blinking rather rapidly, Sherlock added, “And even if the idea of it—might scare me a bit, yes, I want to keep it.”

“Because of curiosity for it?”

“Attachment,” Sherlock corrected.  

 “All right,” John finally replied, his voice dipping into known territories of raspy. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Sherlock paled, and looked away quickly, studying the rigid position of his cigarette.

 “What do you like, Sherlock?”

Leaning in, John absently licked his lower lip, and felt the faint sappiness of saliva his tongue created. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over John’s face, landing on the movement of his mouth. He blinked a few times, his delicate features scrunching up and making tiny, whistling noises. John wondered if Sherlock’s eyelashes sang as well.

“Well, that question is extremely broad and doesn’t set me up for adequate answer-time, not including the various subjects I could delve into if prompted.”

“What areas should we prompt then?”

_“Um.”_

John had a faint idea that Sherlock did not get flustered so easily.

“John, you must know something—”

Before Sherlock could finish, or John could supply an answer, they both heard a faint rumble from the window. John and Sherlock silenced, staying absolutely still. The sound recreated itself.

John sighed. The window must be open.

“Mixed breed cat,” Sherlock whispered in affirmation. “Infested with a stomach virus, by the sounds of her. Also in need for a play-toy.”

“Sherlock,” John muttered, his voice straining. “Don’t move.”

“She knows we’re in here,” Sherlock replied.

He sounded awfully calm knowing that a creature that could rip limbs off was crouching outside their box.

“Then what’s your plan?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “We—”

The box began to shake, rattling trinkets out of their neat slots. Sherlock gasped, holding unto the softness of his sock as he tried to grip to the walls for balance. John was shouting now, as was his nature, directing Sherlock.

“I’m going out there. Don’t. Please don’t break.”

He said the last part softly, imploringly.

John lifted the lid of the box off and tumbled unto the table, his plastic sword with a paperclip end leveled at the face of the great beast. Hissing, the cat slapped her paw at John, thinking this some sort of game. John leapt away in time, but started yelling abuse.

“Come on, you silly thing.” _(Well, rather soft abuse.)_ “Play with me! Not the box. C’mon!”

The cat’s eyes narrowed, glancing quickly to the fun looking music box, and then to John. She made a disgruntled noise, aiming her next swipe at the box instead.

“Stupid cat,” grumbled John, as he pulled himself in front of the box, and more importantly, Sherlock.  

The cat made a louder noise of discontent, her tail moving loftily as she sat there. John did not like how this was, as it appeared, exciting for her. She pounced this time, shoving John bodily across the table. He fell on his back, sliding across the surface until he was at the ledge.

In a quick movement, the cat jumped once more, swatting the box lightly. Suddenly, music began to play from it when she hit it again. Not enjoying the sound, the cat eyed it suspiciously. With the distraction, John used it to run full-force, in an attempt to scare the cat away.

She did get startled, rearing back as John yelled at her like a disapproving owner.

“Get out of here, yeah? Go on!”

His sword ready, John swiped it swiftly in the air as a warning.

The cat did not like this.

She pounced unexpectedly, and pinned John to the table, his arm pinned under the scrape of her claws. The nails began to press into his coat, and would certainly soon press into his wooden skin.

“Sherlock!” John managed to say, his chest crushed by the weight of the animal.

 “Oh, John. Nice to see you here.”

Jerking his head around, John’s mouth then hung agape.

_“Sherlock?!”_

“Surprise!” Sherlock smiled, his hands opening at his chest, fingers wiggling at his dashing reveal.

God, he looked positively enthralled. John wondered if he could fall even more in love with this great man. _(The answer was yes.)_

Before John could say his thanks, Sherlock was running away again, back to his music box. It was turned right-side up, but all of Sherlock’s knick-knacks were spilled across the table. Sherlock climbed up his box, but didn’t crawl inside the secret compartment. Instead, he opened the lid fully so the music began to play. He placed his foot on its pedestal and turned around, balancing himself as he circled the platform in loops.

Tilting her head, the cat followed Sherlock’s movement, gaining interest in his dance and the odd metallic sound of the song. She released John, turning her attention to the porcelain man. Stalking him, she slowly moved forward.

John leapt up, forgetting the pain in his leg _(it was gone for a while, wasn’t it?)_ and sprinted to the collection of trinkets spilled out unto the table. Picking up the silver bell, John tied it to the thread around his shoulder, and swung it forward.   

The cat turned her head, watching the bell disappear unto the floor. She abandoned her pursuit of Sherlock, who was not really dancing anymore, but perhaps standing haughtily as he spun around, arms crossed.

John reeled back the bell now, and the cat’s eyes seemed to widen when she realized who was controlling her new toy.

John rang it a couple of times and shook it over his head.

“You want this? All right, good cat.”

He threw the toy again, the bell bouncing unto the floor. The cat jumped on it, swatting the bell between her paws. Before John had to repeat the game again, the door to the flat opened.

“What is all this racket, boys?” Mrs. Hudson fussed as she closed the door.

By the time she turned around, Sherlock was in his correct position on the stand, John was lying on the table, and the cat was gnawing on the bell.

Mrs. Hudson looked around at the trinkets, the thread tangled across the table, down to the floor, at the open window.

“Oh my,” she sighed, eyeing the cat. “Look at this mess.”

Closing the window, Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

John was thankful the cat could be blamed.

He wasn’t so thankful that Mrs. Hudson soon adopted it.

++

It was odd that John was put in the music box with Sherlock. Surely the woman thought that the cat tore him down from the shelf, but she ended up folding them together into the compartment, placing the sock over them gently.

She had smiled, and didn’t come up to the flat the whole next day.

When it was long after they climbed out of the box together, Sherlock stood in front of John, but kept himself at a distance, as if he might have to run inside his music box if things didn’t pan out right. John’s face softened at his nervousness, and gave a little nod to encourage him to say what was on his mind.

“I should say, thank you. For. The thing you did last night,” Sherlock announced.

John looked up at Sherlock and grinned. He wished he could write down everything, every moment he spent with Sherlock.

“Ah, yeah. And—you know, it’s mutual.”

“I can’t believe Mrs. Hudson kept the bell for that cat. Rather rude.”

John laughed, shaking his head. “You know, it seems she thinks we’re…”

Sherlock grinned. “Oh, she’d like to be a matchmaker.”

John’s eyes seemed to flit across Sherlock’s face, trying to find a place to rest on, but he ended up just glancing back.

“Would you like to get dinner?”

Sherlock looked expectant as he played with the hem of his skirt.

In answer, John nodded swiftly.

“I’m starving,” he replied as an after-thought, staring at the petal of Sherlock’s lip.

“I thought toys like us can’t eat.”

John half-grinned, reaching out to grab Sherlock’s hand. It was an impulse, the way John was captivated by the small, twitching movements of Sherlock’s fingers. He had to calm it, to feel the smoothness of porcelain against his splintered hand.

“I defy our natural inclinations in more ways than one.”

Sherlock’s mouth slipped open, observing the laugh lines on John’s wooden cheeks. Stumbling over his words, he replied,

“S-So do I, yes, obviously. In fact—”

_“Shh.”_

“No, this is important,” stated the man. “This is important to me.”  

“Okay then. What is it?”

“I’m a real man.”

John chuckled. “ _Hmm_ , I’ll say.”

“No, John. Listen to me,” Sherlock pleaded, his hand tightening in John’s.

He felt the smoothness of that porcelain, the delicate gloss of each fingertip, the shiny polish of his nails. John didn’t know a man more real than Sherlock Holmes.

“When I said I made my name up, John, I meant that I changed it. It’s not Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, and mine sure isn’t an ID number either, but it’s fine. Our past doesn’t define us.”

“Except, John, that it really, _really_ does.”

Sherlock stepped closer, though he looked away, hesitant.

“My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I never had a model number; in fact, I’m one of a kind,” he whispered, eyed wide.

John just shook his head, confused. “…like one of those fancy dolls with the birth certificates? Sherlock, I don’t care if you’re handcrafted porcelain or painted ceramic. It’s all the same to me in the end because it’s you.”

“That is lovely, John, but that is not what I’m saying _,”_ Sherlock said, his chin rising in a declaratory way, his lips pushed together in what could be the beginning of a beautiful soliloquy. _“_ Being alive and being real are incredibly different things, though I think I’ve heard the expression ‘I’m a real boy’ before to mean both at once. It might help lead you to the conclusion I’m obviously trying to draw upon.”

“You mean…” John leaned back, but grabbed Sherlock’s arm to steady him.

“I’m not enchanted, John,” he murmured.

John caught the smallest of tears _(how could that be?)_ emerge from the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. His glass hair would fall in front of his face if it was real hair, but it only stayed its same shape when Sherlock dropped his head in sadness.  No, it was not sadness. It was shame.

“I’m _cursed_.”

The man crumbled, his body rattling noisily as he fell to the ground. John went with him, his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching the fretful _clinking_ of fragile legs.

“If this is cursed, then you are the most beautiful curse I’ve ever seen,” he declared.

Looking up, Sherlock let out a choked sob, his pale hands returning to cover his face.

“Sorry,” John muttered. “Sorry, I coddle you, I know.”

“I said that no one…”

In that moment, John realized that it wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t want people to ‘coddle’ him, but that he thought he didn’t deserve to be, that he was alone in this.

“I do,” John whispered with feeling. “I care. I do.”

“John, you don’t know what I’m inferring then.”

“Then…?”

“I am flesh and blood. I am _alive_

“You used to be—one of them. That’s what you’re telling me.”

“You don’t believe me.”

He wrapped his hand tighter around Sherlock, his thumb now grazing his wrist. “Of course— _of course_ I believe you. You’re the real thing.”

“You seem awfully steady with this information. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The corners of John’s eyes crinkled. “I just found out my—flat-mate is a breathing man. I’m just baffled.”

“John?” Sherlock asked, concerned.

“How can you be even more spectacular?” laughed John. “ _How?_ You can tell me everything about myself with one glance, then you bloody well play violin through your lips. Now this?” John smiled steadily, prideful. “And I’m ‘deducing’ this flat is yours? Seems a coincidence that this room has a collection of detective stories, not to mention the science equipment lying around.”

“I don’t like detective novels, John,” Sherlock pushed off, trying to express a sense of bewilderment, offense.

“Oh yeah?” he retorted lightly. “So this is your flat.”

“The curse happened right after I moved in.”

“Explains the mess,” John nodded, looking around.

Sherlock jerked his head around, as if mapping out ways to clean up as effectively as possible with his short _(though taller than John)_ stature. He bit his lip _(unsuccessful.)_

“And Mrs. Hudson knows, that explains a lot,” John added. “She always talked to you, in fact…talked to me too.”

Sherlock looked away suddenly. “Yes, she knows. She’s actually good company, especially if one is suddenly depressed and going mad from becoming, well. I can never reply to her, seeing how enchanted toys can’t talk to the living, but. Still. It’s nice to be spoken to on occasion.”

“…I’m sure,” John whispered softly. “How…did it happen?”

Sherlock looked down, away, hiding something. “Not quite sure I want to delve into that mystery yet. I’m a detective by the way, hello.”

“A real works-for-the-police detective?” John smiled, his eyes wide with amusement. Perhaps he shouldn’t bring up how Sherlock got this way, yet.  

_(He loves him.)_

“I’d rather say that they work for me, or, used to. Can’t do much mystery solving when no one takes you seriously. My brother tried to get me some cold cases to work on while he deals with this whole ‘curse’ problem, but it’s not the same.”

John began to grin.

“Your brother then, the one that doesn’t coddle you.”

“He doesn’t, obviously!” Sherlock responded too quickly, flushing. “I’m not a child.”

“So he’s trying to help you?”

“Oh, and he’s doing a horrible job of it. Barely can find anything on enchantments. I told him to watch the bloody _Nutcracker_ while he’s at it.”

Smiling, John said, “Mrs. Hudson is helping you too, I’m guessing.”

“Yes, in her own way,” Sherlock said, his voice distant.

“Make that a third.”

“What?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I’ll help you too, Sherlock. In any way I can.”

“Even if it means I won’t be able to speak with you again?”

John looked up at him and could only nod with resolute absoluteness.

“We can learn hand signals, maybe,” John murmured, letting out a painful exhale as he said this.

Sherlock grinned, his eyes soft. “Oh?”

++

Mrs. Hudson opened the curtains, and then opened the lid of the music box in the morning.  

“Hello boys,” she smiled. “Are you decent?”

Sherlock grumbled, pulling the sock over his head. “God’s sake it’s nearly ten. Leave me be.”

“Oh, how lovely,” she smiled, not understanding a word of what he had said, or at least pretending she did not get the gist of his mumblings. “Mycroft’s popping in later, dear.”

John opened his eyes and immediately got out of the second sock. Sherlock had given him one as his own bed, though it did not match the one Sherlock had. Some part of him wished that he could curl up in the softness of Sherlock’s sock instead of the plain purple one he used.  

“Tell him to go away! I don’t want him meddling in this!”

Seeming to understand the rage surrounding Sherlock’s fluttering movements, Mrs. Hudson tilted her head and sighed.

“I don’t think we have much choice.”

“I don’t need him, all right? Tell him it doesn’t scare me.”

But Mrs. Hudson was already dusting the shelves by the time Sherlock stood up, crossing his arms. John imagined Sherlock with messy hair from sleep, pouting lip, and loose pajamas.

“What doesn’t scare you, Sherlock?” questioned John.

Sherlock glanced to him, but promptly ignored. “Tell Mycroft I’m not a fragile, little—”

The door, already opened, was soon filled with the tallness of what had to be Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft cleared his throat, lifting an eyebrow at Sherlock as Mrs. Hudson bid him in. They greeted cordially, Mycroft’s face straining into what had to be a painful smile, his eyebrows lifted like a caricature of a politician.  

“I see you’re well rested, Sherlock,” he said, glancing over at John.

Sherlock frowned and quickly made various hand movements, his eyes narrowed, mouth a firm line. Oh, John realized. Sherlock _(of course, the genius)_ knew sign language.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“I am _trying_ , brother dear,” the elder Holmes expressed, tapping his umbrella on the floor. “It’s harder than it looks to discover curse remedies nowadays.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s blatantly ironic tone.

“Besides that, I thought I’d make a visit to see your new…flat-mate. Talk one on one.”

Mycroft smiled.  

++

“You’re a wooden soldier, how interesting. I bet Sherlock loves that, does he?”

“Excuse me?” John muttered, clenching his fists.

“If I were to tell you that I can make you real too, would you do that?”

“ _Er_ —I can’t really answer you. I get you’re trying to play big brother with Sherlock, but it does seem a bit—dramatic, doesn’t it?”

“ _Hm_ , funny,” Mycroft replied. “Your body language says you’re mocking me? I should warn you, Dr. Watson, that is not a smart thing to do. Let’s say I can make you into a real man. Nod if you understand.”

John sniffed, but then nodded.

“All you need to do is report back to me about Sherlock’s activities. For his protection, of course.”

John snorted and immediately shook his head.

“Not even for another arm, soldier?”

“That’s army doctor, and not for anything.”

Mycroft, possibly hearing the agitation in John’s posture, leaned back and gave a solemn nod.

“Very well.”

As he was about to leave, Mycroft added, “Don’t hurt him. He may seem incredibly unbreakable, but trust me in that he is…easily broken.”

“He’s not broken.”

_(Vulnerable, let him be vulnerable.)_

“I know you are defending him, no matter if I cannot understand your exact words, but make note, doctor. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man.”

John laughed.

“Dangerous to himself,” Mycroft whispered in correction, before leaving for good.  

++

John thought about what that could mean, Sherlock dangerous but only to his own mind.

“How did you get this way, Sherlock?”

Busy trying to type on a laptop, Sherlock looked up, obviously frantic in his rushing around. He jumped on the enter key, and then folded his arms behind his back.

“How do people get the way they are? Such a philosophical question in itself—”

“Stop humoring me; I’m quite serious.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. “Always a desire for cleverness, John.”

Taking a step closer so he was lingering on the space bar, John shook his finger at him. “No, that’s you. You’re the clever one.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“What are you doing?” John asked, his mouth open in a mix of concern and amusement.

“Doing? Trying to Google scientific ways to change the very fabric of DNA, seeing how it’s quite important to me.” Sherlock looked down, as if to demonstrate the realness of his body.

“No, don’t be playful.”

“I can’t be playful?” Sherlock asked defensively, his eyes downcast.

“I just—all right then.” John pressed his thumb on his cheek, thinking. “How did you get this way? What changed you?”

 “Did Mycroft put you up to this?” In that instant, Sherlock’s arms waved around, fluttering in front of his face, swooping over his head in a fury of repressed irritation as he spoke. “He wants to spy on me, you know. I can’t imagine the reasons. Probably wants to laugh while I _spin and spin around_ on that damn contraption like a garden fairy—”

“Sherlock.”

“He said he’d give you money—no—a real life. _Pah_ , what a fanciful wish. I imagine you said yes?”

“What? No, of course I didn’t. And I’d hardly have a ‘real’ life. I already have one, with you.”

Sherlock’s whole body swayed to the left, as if the moon was soon pulling him by strings into shadow.

“You said no?”

“I said no. And your brother thinks I’m stupid to believe he’d give me some spell while not giving it to you.”

Sherlock smirked. “Pretty clever, John.”

“Well, I’m a doctor.”

“Pretty damn clever.”

John laughed as Sherlock smiled, his face feeling like it was caught in a pit of embers, like his lips were crackling, his cheeks the warm smell of autumn firewood.

“So, would you ever tell me how this happened?”

“It was sentiment, John. It clouded my judgment.”

“Was it a person who did this to you?”

“I’d hardly say it was a person. More like a spider, a virus, the malicious parasite crawling through the goodness of life.”

John tried not to comment on Sherlock’s wording, how poetic it was.

“He asked me to make a deal, and I said yes,” Sherlock revealed. “Now I live in mockery, in isolation, trapped because apparently I look ‘funny’ like this, fragile.”

Sherlock appeared on the verge of tears, half his face shrouded in shadow, his visible hand shaky and his knees clacking their high-pitched song.

“You look beautiful,” John breathed.

Before he had a chance to deny his declaration, to tell Sherlock, softly, that it was okay, it was all right, that John wouldn’t say something like that again when he had said it before, John heard Sherlock gasp.

“I’m cold,” Sherlock said, almost crossly. “My skin is cold.”

As if to say, he was not real, not flesh, no heart, just this empty coldness.

John lifted his head, sniffed, his eyes staring at Sherlock with longing and stern praise.

 “Let me warm you.”

++

“Just— _ah_ —turn around, no—that’s my leg. Sherlock! Stay still for a moment—”

“God’s sake, John! I’m perfectly still—bah, _no_ , you’re squirming—”

After a calm discussion, they both found themselves in one sock, pressed against each other.

“Are you bloody warm now?” John whispered.

Sherlock giggled into John’s chest and muttered. “You smell like sap.”

“Get a good whiff, because I’m moving over.”

“Good luck,” Sherlock laughed shrilly, as John attempted to turn his back.

Unsuccessful, John returned, wrapping his one arm around Sherlock, his face pressed into the hardness of his glass hair.   

“You know, it’s strange how Mrs. Hudson isn’t trying to put me in that back brace anymore,” John said.

“I might have had a word with her.”

“She can’t understand you.”

“She was writing her grocery list. Thought it an appropriate time to use materials at hand.”

“You wrote out what I said, for me?”

“Yes. She said she was worried about you, something about how she didn’t want you to end up like her hip, somethingorother.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

John pressed his hand at Sherlock’s chest, where his heart would be.

“We can’t do this if I turn back into a real man.”

“You are a real man now, and that doesn’t bother me,” John murmured. “I’ll still be here, watching from the mantle.”

“Okay,” Sherlock mumbled, clinging to John tightly. “It’s awfully sad.”

John ignored that, because, it was rather sad.

“When you turn back, don’t even think about smoking that cigarette.”

“Why would you even think, out of all things—have you no respect for—why—”

John pulled him tighter and grinned.

“I’ll keep the cigarette, John. Unused. Untouched. You know, abstinence isn’t always the best way to go.”

“Oh,” John stirred, trying to sit up a bit when Sherlock said this. “Is this you saying…I mean.”

“What do you think I’m saying?”

“ _Ha_. Um,” John felt his neck itch, his chest tighten. “Have you had…experiences?”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” John replied.

“With who?!” Sherlock nearly shrieked.

“It’s complicated.”

“Names, John.”

“With other soldiers. Don’t be crude about it.”

_“Hm.”_

John relaxed, contemplating now. “What is it like, to live properly, Sherlock?”

“Horrible.”

“Well, it must not be that bad if you want to be human again.”

“It’s nice, yes. Grounding. Everything is vivid, warm, sensations are stronger. People understand you—better. Not fully, though. They know that I’m the smartest one in the room. I can run around London. I can _breathe_ the very air—” His voice began to get louder, nostalgic. “I can take everything in, and do what I please. My pulse is loud. My heart is…”

“Sherlock?”

He quieted. “I can feel everything. Every quiver of my being, it surrounds me.”

“That sounds amazing.”

Sherlock sighed, solemn. “Yes, if only.”

“What?”

“You could experience it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are very soft.


	3. Softness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank momther kinklo because I wrote an ask about this concept and got the reply to write this. And I did. :>
> 
> Thanks to everyone who decided to read this, and didn't mind my overuse of the words 'soft' and 'gentle.' 
> 
> Happy reading!

“I think I know how to break the curse,” John interrupted.

Both the Holmes’s looked to him in the midst of their silent argument.

Sherlock scrunched his nose at Mycroft and signed something that looked hurtful. Mycroft rolled his eyes at him.

“Go on, John,” Sherlock encouraged. “Mycroft’s ideas are incoherent.”

“A kiss.”

“A what?” Sherlock whispered, glancing at his brother and back at John. “How would that help?”

“You know,” John shrugged, adamant. “A kiss will break the spell, the prince kisses the princess, that sort.”

“I’m lost here,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You must have heard of fairytales before.”

“Yes, Hansel and Gretel. Cinderella, Sleeping Beau— _oh_.”

John nodded slowly as he watched Sherlock’s skin tint like the pink bees on his box.

“Mycroft, I need to have a word with John, alone.”

Mycroft, although not being able to hear Sherlock, understood his gestures nonetheless. He appeared like he was going to protest, but gave a simple nod, his eyes lowered.

“Of course, Sherlock.”  

Sherlock closed his eyes until his brother left the room, opening them when the front door closed and he stared at John. Calmness came over them, and all John could do was give a soft smile while Sherlock stood there, bewildered.

“Who would kiss me?” Sherlock whispered, his head down.

John took a step forward. “I think you know exactly who.” He tilted his head, smiling wider now, tentative, but confident.

Looking up through his lashes, Sherlock bit his lip and kept his eyes on John. _(Always on John.)_

“I’d rather stay this way, if I can be with you,” Sherlock murmured.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, his eyes warm. “It might work. You’d be happy.”

“I’m happy now.”

“Living in a sock, with glass legs?” John _tsked_ lightly. “People need you.”

“But I need you more.”  

“I’ll always be here for you. You can put me in your pocket.”

“You’d abhor that,” grinned Sherlock, his face still flushed. “If anyone is comfortable in a pocket it’s me.”

“If I can’t get a kiss,” John licked his lips. “Can I share a dance with you?”

++

It wasn’t really a curse, John knew. He could see in Sherlock eyes that this notion was dwindling as well. John took Sherlock’s waist when the lights dimmed in the room, and it was only the hush of the flat, and the brightness of Sherlock’s eyes.

_(The music box played its song.)_

Sherlock’s porcelain skin was everything.

His hands were smooth and grasped John’s shoulders as they spun around and around on the table until John grew dizzy from their light-hearted twirling. Spinning Sherlock like a top, Sherlock giggled breathlessly, jokes and teasing abundant in such an intimate space. Soon, their hands held tighter, and John knew he was going to have to convince Sherlock to give this all up. It was for the best.

Sherlock loved being a human being: he loved his work, outside, his lofty figure, his softness.

Now, they only swayed together, their fronts touching, their bodies melting into one, leaning against each other with sad need. John felt like he might cry, like he could. Warm between John’s splintered hand, Sherlock curled into John’s embrace, his limbs limp with exhaustion.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispered close to his ear.

Sherlock clutched at him tighter, his chest constricting with repressed breaths. John could hear the soft sobs coming from Sherlock’s muffled face.

“Y-You can’t possibly…mean that.”

“Of course I do.”

Sherlock straightened, wiping his cheek with his wrist.

“I forgot, favorably, to tell you some other choice things about how Mrs. Hudson picked you out.”

“It was from some internet ad, I’m sure of it.”

“Yes, but, someone was there to help pick who would look good with the collection.”

“…” John narrowed his eyes as Sherlock tried to lean away from him. “It was you.”

“I saw you, and knew I was done for.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry if I upset you…”

“You can’t love me,” Sherlock said again, demanding. “It’s impossible.”

Affronted, John replied, “It’s quite possible, believe me.”

The music box seemed to slow its endless song, Sherlock leaned back into John, his hands clumsy with movement. John clasped his palm tightly and brought Sherlock’s hand to his chest with reassurance.

“You’re admitting a truth,” John whispered.

"For God’s sakes, John, can’t you see it from the way I look at you? Can’t you deduce it for heaven’s sake? Can’t you see it in my eyes?!”

Hysterical, Sherlock’s hands shook and reached out to cup John’s cheeks. John blinked and put his hand over Sherlock’s steadily.

“You love me?”

Sherlock nodded, tears crisp in his eyes. “Y-Yes. I’m desperate for you. I tremble, I stir with love. I feel your presence within me! I’m romantically attached, a sodding sap, just for you to see!”

 Sherlock closed his eyes, nostrils flaring, chest tightening, _(exposed.)_

“You beautiful, romantic fool,” smiled John. “I saw you and loved you. I always will.”

Sherlock looked up as John pulled him closer.

“Come here,” John murmured.

Sherlock nodded, blinking and blinking the tears away.

“Y-You love me?”

“Yes, I’d keep you forever if I’m allowed.”

“Sentiment?” Sherlock whispered, daring himself to ask.

“Attachment, love, adoration, whatever other word I can think of. You know what this means, Sherlock?”

“I don’t have to pine over you anymore?”

“True love’s kiss, if you want to.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What if it doesn’t work…”

“If we’re meant to be together, it will.”

Sherlock gripped the back of John’s neck and pulled himself forward.

“You’re hard,” Sherlock muttered close to his neck.

John laughed like how Sherlock wanted, and Sherlock beamed at a job well done.

“Wood jokes, yeah, I got that,” John said.

“If this doesn’t go as planned…don’t forget me, John?”

“I’m keeping this safe, don’t you worry.”

Sherlock hugged him tighter and lifted his head up, his porcelain lips grazing John’s chin. John caught the delicate lip and it felt like Sherlock was playing music inside his mouth. John clutched onto him until he felt like they were one, their lips both soft and stern, fragile yet calloused, whimpering and groaning.

Violin solos and tiny tinny music boxes, _tinking_ glasses and the faint hush of Sherlock’s voice was all John heard until he woke up differently.

++

They collapsed onto each other, and John felt incredibly _hot_. He clung to Sherlock’s skin, feeling not the tight coldness of milky porcelain, but fleshy softness. His fingers held tighter, indenting the strange sensation. The second feeling besides blazing warmth was the deeper, louder, present voice of Sherlock beside him.

“John! John, please, for the love of God!”

He sounded fretful, but John was too pleased to hear that sweet voice so echoic and extremely vivid. He could never hear so crisply, so, so _loudly_.

“Please wake up!”

But Sherlock sounded distressed so John tried to grip to that squishy skin again, opening his eyes in the process. Sherlock was above him, his face open and honest and blotched with tears, sweat, skin pigment. John gasped.

Sherlock looked so beautiful, so real above him.  

“John, thank God!”

“ _Shh_ ,” he smirked, because Sherlock was so angelic and wonderful and—

Blinking again, John realized something. Sherlock was big. And he was. Well, also big. Abruptly, he lifted himself up into a sitting position, his hand going to his head. His left hand.

John’s eyes widened as he stared at the humanness of it, until he looked down, at the pudginess of his stomach, the tight muscle of his _(both!)_ arms, his small hands, until he ran his fingers over his face. He didn’t care what he looked like, but Sherlock kept staring at him with captivation.

“You’re _real_ ,” Sherlock whispered, like it was his dream come true, wished upon a star.

_(He was always real, to Sherlock.)_

“And huge, _Christ_ ” John mumbled, staring at his sitting height compared to the table. They must have fallen off the table. Sherlock could have broken. No, John grinned.

Sherlock was human now; such a fall could not break him.

“In a lot of places, yes,” Sherlock replied, his eyes glancing back and forth between John’s legs.

Eyebrows lifting, John also realized he was naked. Well.          

John stumbled and Sherlock helped him from falling over, obviously John was less adept at being human than Sherlock was. He got to his feet, Sherlock holding onto his broad shoulders, until John stared at the lean height of the man keeping him together. Sherlock was soft, debauched-looking, hair unkempt and pale body long. They were idiots standing naked together in the middle of a messy flat. How surreal.

“I’m so…tall,” John whispered, placing his hand on the table to steady himself.

Sherlock chuckled. “Not as tall as you think.”

“Hey, cut it,” said John, his eyes roaming over the flat quickly.

It was inexplicably calming to be like this, to feel so human.

John laughed.

“What’s wrong?”

He glanced at Sherlock, at his inhaling, exhaling, inhaling chest, at the pink spots on his cheeks, his bony hands, the universe of his eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong,” John giggled again. “This is the strangest day of my life.”

“It might get stranger,” Sherlock whispered.

“How so?”

Sherlock’s eyes lowered, his head tilting hesitantly. He let out the smallest of sounds before his nose pressed at John’s hair, his mouth slipping clumsily onto John’s cheek. It was incredibly sweet.

“I—I never told you how I turned into porcelain,” Sherlock murmured close to his ear, trembling.

“Would you like to?”

“Yes, I think very much so.”

John’s arms, both, wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and he felt so soft, cradling Sherlock’s warm body against his. Everything touched.

“I wasn’t planning on being alone when I moved into this flat. I had my best friend with me, Redbeard. H-He was getting a bit old, though. Mycroft told me he’d…well, you know. And…I just couldn’t stand that to happen, John. I couldn’t.”

“Sherlock—”

“Someone made me a deal. It was a very _good_ deal. He said Redbeard would be strong if I was fragile. Of course I accepted.”

“And it backfired?”

“A spider tricked me, tricked a very clever man, because I let sentiment…” Sherlock closed his eyes and buried his face into John’s neck.

“Hey, it’s okay, Sherlock,” he soothed. “It’s okay now.”

“It didn’t work. I wasn’t strong enough, and Redbeard died, because of me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” John gripped him fiercely, feeling a strength he did not know he could possess.

Sherlock smiled faintly, but lifted his head away, tilting it ever so shyly.

Suddenly, John remembered Sherlock’s odd questions when they were close in the intimacy of his music box, when Sherlock was so adamant to know if John liked dogs, if he could love things.

“Redbeard was your dog, wasn’t he?”

Sherlock nodded and they embraced again in their new softness.

++

“I can’t find my music box!” shouted Sherlock perhaps an hour later.

John had returned from the shower, transfixed at how the water slid off his body. He found many parts of him unique and strange. He did some exploring while Sherlock fussed in the living room. Toweling off his hair, John marched into the room as Sherlock tossed the chairs about.

“Sherlock?”

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned one of the armchairs upside-down, growling when he realized that his music box was not to be seen.

“It has my things in there! Do you know, John, how difficult it was to befriend a murder of crows so they would bring me back interesting trinkets—and _not_ horrid pebbles like they were adamant at doing at fir—”

Sherlock dove for the fireplace, flipping over books and his Persian slipper. He was just about to scoop up the glass kittens along the shelves when John stopped him.

“Be careful with those!”

“John?”

Sherlock paused as John placed his arm on Sherlock’s elbow. His eyes flickered over John’s wet body and he gulped.

“You know, most people put clothes on.”

“The only clothes I had was that velvet uniform.”

“Might have to get you some fatigues,” Sherlock nodded.

“Or real clothes, mind you,” John corrected, his hand still on Sherlock’s arm.

“No beret either? You’re no fun.”

“Sherlock, please. Be gentle with them.”

“They aren’t enchanted.”

“I know—but. Can you do that, for me?”

Sherlock nodded, placing them back on the shelf gingerly.

“All the antiques here are mine, did you know, John? Mrs. Hudson just likes to dust them,” Sherlock declared, his expression adoringly aloof.

“Oh?” he smiled. “That’s rather nice.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock gnawed at the inside of his cheek, and then flitted away, his body loose in the soft casualness of his pajamas. He slowed down once he saw his violin, his eyes imploring, inquisitive.

“I only know…” Sherlock said.

“Classics,” they both finished and John laughed with encouragement.  

The violin was very crisp, nothing like the notes of the box, but still just as beautiful. Sherlock played for the lost music, the pink bees, and perhaps a bit of porcelain he might have begun to miss.

As John stood there, listening, he thought about how much he loved him, in any form.

++

When Mrs. Hudson got home from her busy day _(she wouldn’t say, but she had starting seeing a handsome devil in banking. It wouldn’t last, but she enjoyed the rush)_ they decided to surprise her.

“ _Hoohoo_ , boys,” she greeted as she knocked on the door.

Sherlock had been standing in perfect position ever since he realized Mrs. Hudson would be coming home. He was in said position for over thirty minutes, but nothing must be given up in hopes to dazzle his favorite landlady. John, on the other hand, was too preoccupied with finding a suitable outfit to wear, and ended up in Sherlock’s T-shirt and sweatpants _(to Sherlock’s joy)._  

She screamed quite loudly.

Sherlock thought this a success in dazzling, while John seemed quite worried. He didn’t know Mrs. Hudson like Sherlock did. Sherlock knew she was a strong, robust woman, and gave her a small, heartwarming wave of his hand as he stood right at the mouth of the door.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, clutching her chest.

Her hands shook as she pulled him into a hug, Sherlock gasping as his arms clung tightly to her. She wept happily, and ushered John close once she saw sight of him.

“My boys,” she smiled. “Oh, John. We’re going to have to get you some clothes, dear.”

“I’ve got a list of options,” Sherlock beamed.

“I’m sure John can pick out his own things.”

Sherlock frowned, but didn’t know that he would end up really fancying the jumpers John would buy.

The cat came rushing through the flat, skirting between their legs, she just as surprised as Mrs. Hudson was. Sherlock placed his hand out to graze her fur, silently itching to hold her, while John eyed the cat suspiciously. She seemed to remember them, but decided to plan on ignoring them for the time being.

“She’s a lovely cat,” Mrs. Hudson beamed. “You two are so good to me, _sometimes_.”

As if they had bought the cat from a local pet store. Mrs. Hudson smirked knowingly, and wrapped her arms around them again.

“We should tell your brother and celebrate,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He’s going to be so proud of you, Sherlock.”

“Oh bother,” he rumbled. “Can’t I spend some more time with John first? He did just _miraculously_ turn into a human man.”

“My, what a fantasy come true,” she smiled, patting Sherlock on the arm gently.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock blinked, flabbergasted.

“I actually…” John said, giving a sheepish grin. “I think we promised a dinner together?”

“Oh, excellent,” their landlady agreed, practically giddy with excitement.

When she left, Sherlock closed the door, and slid into the kitchen, all on one movement with his long socks on.

“Italian John? I haven’t cooked in a while, though I must say I am pretty darn good.”

“Darn good,” John agreed, laughing. “You have to show me a bit about this cooking thing. I’ve been wary near stoves for most my life.”

“Completely reasonable.”

“So are you hungry then?”

“I’ve been hungry since I first met you.”

John felt the first time his skin really heated up, his ears turning pink. It felt different, but no more real than when he was wooden.

It made John smile. He was real. He had always been real. And Sherlock was too.

++

It was an odd sight to see Mycroft and Sherlock hug.

When the older Holmes opened the door, his usually stern face soft and worried, John stood up. Something must be wrong for Mycroft to have such a concerned, emotional, brotherly expression… And then John watched as Mycroft swept across the flat, to his little brother, embracing him with the most compassionate of grips. Sherlock began to protest _(embarrassed)_ , but soon wrapped his arms around him instead, stunned and silent as he let the spontaneous act fulfill itself.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Mycroft said tersely when he released him.

“It slipped my mind…”

“For God sake,” muttered Mycroft, sounding a lot like Sherlock.

They let go and Mycroft smoothed his jacket out, lifting his head as if to challenge anyway to say something about his devotion to his brother. John gave a sly smile and cocked an eyebrow upwards when Mycroft glanced at him.

“I see you’re…well, John.”

“I’ve always been well,” John retorted sharply.

Mycroft’s eyes widened, a bit impressed by his words, and gave a curt, “So it seems.”

Before he left, he handed John a manila envelope with a tight nod, a whirl of his umbrella.

“I’m sure this will be practical to have. Now that you’re human.”

“Ta,” John replied.

 

 They ate food, and Sherlock played John a beautiful piece on his violin afterwards.

That night Sherlock showed John how to work a remote, which John got quite quickly, while he shouted about not being a _‘bloody idiot, Sherlock, I can work things out.’_ And so he did. Things worked out.  

Their feet touched under the covers as they tangled themselves on the couch, the TV just dull background now. Their legs entwined, warm in intimate places, their hands hidden and holding beneath the blankets. Sherlock placed his head on John’s chest, slotting himself on his side slightly so he wouldn’t be in danger of becoming the bigger spoon.  

John was still getting used to the idea of how enormous he was, but loved the feeling just the same. He liked having furniture and feeling the softness of his skin, the squish of his stomach, the grit in his fingernails, the toughness of his biceps. Sherlock enjoyed it too, draped over John as they watched a horrible movie late into the night.  

It felt like being in the large sock, pushed to touch Sherlock in all places while feeling incredibly safe and secure. Now, it was the many blankets wrapped around their bodies and instead of the hardness of Sherlock’s glass hair, John, for the first time, placed his nose in a sea of soft curls.

He giggled for longer than he should have, if someone was judging him. But no one was, and Sherlock smiled, preening, as John brushed his fingers through it, rubbing the sensitive scalp with each movement. Sherlock hummed softly, mesmerized by the contact, until he fell asleep. John smiled, dreaming about jumping rooftops, and cooking burnt noodles, with his hand still petting Sherlock’s errant curl.

It was human and good.

++

“So glad I have my hand back,” John said when he was writing his name on various documents. “Turns out I’m left-handed.”

Sherlock was walking from the kitchen to the living room, passing John on his way to his own armchair. He leaned down silently and John leaned up in his plush chair, giving each other a quick kiss as Sherlock walked to sit crossed-legged on the floor.

_(Sherlock tended to give kisses whenever he saw John at the other end of a room.)_

“Mycroft could have gotten me a stamp,” John complained _(as was his custom)_ as he shook his hand from overuse, .

 Grunting in affirmation, Sherlock went over different newspaper clippings by the armchair. It had been a couple days since the transformation, and they were slowly but surely getting their lives underway. John was silently thankful Mycroft got a birth certificate for him as well as other documents. He couldn’t really tell people his model name if they asked for citizenship, and whatnot.

“I like your left hand,” Sherlock said quietly as he looked over the pieces of information splayed out on the floor.

“Just my left?”

“Your right is nifty too, John. Don’t be cocky.”

“Strange that I regained a hand, though.”

“You’ve got a bullet wound on your shoulder too. There are a couple disputable things about the body you have now.”

“Disputable?” John egged on. “Maybe it’s like the bite mark, Sherlock. Don’t question magic.”

“Magic, _ha_.”

“You were the one who was enchanted, so don’t scoff at magic now.”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over something interesting. He clapped his hands together, shooting up into a giddy standing state.

“Finally! Something better than boring cold cases and petty robberies! There’s been a murder, John!”

John immediately turned his attention to him, which made Sherlock beam.

“Go on, what’s the case.”

“It appears there’s been a string of suicides, but I don’t think it was…”

As Sherlock explained the case, John could only nod with absolute assurance. His life with Sherlock was exhilarating, quiet, adrenaline-inducing, and tenderly theirs.

++

“Who’s this for?” Sherlock questioned, almost interrogating John.

He looked at the music box cradled in Sherlock’s hands and grinned widely.

“So you found it.”

“No,” Sherlock replied sternly. “This isn’t the original one. Obviously. I can spot the difference with the paintjob and this box has two more bees on it, the pink slightly paler than the color I had before.”

“Oh? It looks pretty similar,” shrugged John.

He leaned against the table while Sherlock studied the box intently.

“Yes, similar, but not identical.”

“Why don’t you open it?” John asked, imploring lightly.

Sherlock grumbled, but lifted the lid up. A song began to play and two small dancers popped out, twirling in a circle. They were hugging each other, obviously supposed to be slow-dancing. One was a lofty ballerina, the other a shorter figurine dressed in an old British uniform.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide.

“John?”

His voice was small.

“You seemed upset since we still can’t find the other music box. So, you know.”

Sherlock watched as the figurines circled around, both their faces hidden in their tight embrace.

He placed the box done gingerly on the table and looked up expectantly.  

“H-How?”

“You’ve done so much for me, Sherlock. Thought I could at least—”

Sherlock kissed him roughly, the grip on John’s neck hard, Sherlock hands large and roaming over his face. John moaned with surprise, but fell into the kiss, his hands skimming over Sherlock’s waist and hips. He never felt such heightened lust, such hot desire coil and coil inside of him. Well, he had. But never to such a fiery degree. John kissed back as much as he could, Sherlock too busy moaning and sucking his lips messily as his hands roamed southward.  

Sherlock decided to give John his own present late in the affections of the night.  

++   

Sometimes, they rushed around London, Sherlock showing John all the beautifully dangerous places human people could hide and chase and play in. Up the alleys, across the rooftops, fighting criminals and being, what John would call Sherlock: messed up heroes. Sherlock brushed the name aside, but there was always a twinkle in his eye when John praised him.

Sometimes, nights weren’t chasing robbers, or finding out who stole a painting, or solving murders in the dark, outside world. Sometimes, it was quiet nights in with the TV buzzing and takeout messily on the table. A cat pawing at their door, an open window John could look out of, an old record playing, a slow dance.

Those moments, John could almost swear he caught Sherlock’s skin turning glassy by his touch in the strands of moonlight, the soft dancer turning into the ballerina once again, his hair glossy, his delicate hands pale and smooth.

John would twirl him to the soft beat of the music box he had bought Sherlock _(they could never find the old one),_ and remember the realness of the porcelain man, the tiny sounds of glass rubbing together, the beautiful enchantment made because Sherlock didn’t want to lose his dog, because Sherlock was human and compassionate and real.

In those moments, John wondered if Sherlock saw the same wooden soldier he fell in love with, now weathered with not rain, but humanness and love.

John hummed to the song’s lullaby, holding Sherlock closer, feeling his heart beat in time with the detective’s, felt his blood, felt his skin and his heavy, reassured breaths.

John felt human like he always knew he was, with the clever dancer by his side.

“Hey,” John whispered.

“Hm?” Sherlock lifted his head from John’s shoulder.

“I love you.”

Sherlock smiled and flipped a curl away from his eyes. It flung back so John pushed it away with his own deft fingers, tilting his head with adoration. Sherlock opened his mouth, singing suddenly in a harsh whisper. Chills ran over John’s arms as he watched Sherlock, heard that still amazing voice.

“I love you too, John” he sang, giving a goofy, wonderful expression.

“I love _youu_ ,” John sang quietly, his voice not at all like the even beauty of Sherlock’s but he whispered a tune just the same.

Sherlock’s mouth opened a sliver, his cheeks blotched, his heart beating faster and faster.

“That was…lovely,” Sherlock said, blinking away wetness.

It brought John back to a time when Sherlock had opened his heart up, and sang for him, when John had kept falling in love with him again and again.   

John chuckled, kissing him gently. They kissed and kissed, gently, _(so gently.)_

It was their own little enchantment, after all.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have put way more wooden jokes in there tbh.
> 
> And Sherlock loves the cat. He feeds her sweets and John finds it amusing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
